Making Progress
by Clarissa Gavin
Summary: Life is short. Join Albert Sartre and CR-S01 as they attempt to make the most of it. Ch. 6 - New school, new life. Ch. 7 - Winter break has finally begun! My first multi-chapter fic. Spoilers for Trauma Team. Please R&R!
1. Memmler's Structure and Function

**A/N:** My stories just seem to keep getting bigger and bigger, don't they? This is a not so short piece inspired by Trauma Team, the greatest game of all time (and a sequel/spin-off thingy to the second and third greatest games of all time). Specifically, it's about the adoption of everyone's favorite felon, CR-S01. They had absolutely nothing about this in-game, so I figured I might as well write up my idea of what happened. This isn't my best work, and I'm not sure how in-character the people are, but we never saw pre-amnesia CR or Albert Sartre, so I guess we'll never know until the sequel. Pretty major spoilers for Trauma Team, so if you haven't played the game, don't read. A big happy shout-out to BestFanOFAnime and her fic, "Pleaseant Days", for inspiring me to write this. Please review whether you loved it or hated it.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Trauma Team or the characters or plot thereof. Atlus will always have a special place in my heart.

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A gaggle of curious heads peeked through the dusty window of the orphanage's main office, and Albert Sartre acknowledged them with a smile and a wave. The pack of boys and girls quickly scattered back to the playground, afraid of being caught eavesdropping, and Albert chuckled. Of course they were curious; an adult visitor at the orphanage usually meant an adoption, and the children were sure to gossip and guess at who would be the lucky one this time. He wished he could give them all a loving home, but that was impossible. Still, this was hardly any place for a child.

Albert sighed and stared blankly out the window. Suddenly, a pair of eyes connected with his. They were small, sad, and lonely, but their most striking feature was their bright red irises. The eyes held his gaze for but a second, and then they were cast downwards, leaving Albert staring a mess of black hair. The eyes belonged to a boy, no older than ten, who sat on a swing by himself. Albert knew the boy had been watching him, and he was intrigued. The boy hadn't been standing at the window with the rest of the children, but had instead remained patient, and his virtue had rewarded him. He had gotten a better look at the stranger than any of the others. Somehow, Albert didn't think he would brag about it. He seemed like he didn't belong, although Sartre wasn't exactly sure why. The boy was sitting all by himself, but that wasn't just it; there was something viscerally different about him, something intangible. At once, Ms. Stephenson, the orphanage director, bustled in with two cups of coffee.

"Professor Sartre! It's a pleasure to see you again! It's been a long time since I've seen a adopter with your qualifications." She handed Albert a cup of black coffee and settled down behind her massive desk. She leaned back precariously in her chair and pulled the blinds down to keep prying eyes away. "I dearly hope you chose to adopt one of our children."

Albert sat up on the threadbare couch that took up one wall of the office. The room was cluttered and messy, but in a homely sort of way that put him at ease. Ms. Stephenson was a rather large woman herself, but not imposing: rather, she was kind and motherly.

"Well, I've looked at a lot of orphanages, but I was most impressed with yours, Ms. Stephenson." Albert took a sip of his coffee and forced a smile; he preferred his with cream and sugar, but he wouldn't turn down the kind gesture. He wasn't one to make a fuss.

She blushed. "Thank you, sir. I'm very pleased to hear that. The children are outside right now, so if you'd like, I could show you out back and let you have a look. I'm sure you'll find that they're all very pleasant, well-behaved children."

Albert laughed good-naturedly. "There's no need to impress me. I understand what I'm getting into. I don't expect any child to be perfect."

Ms. Stephenson smiled broadly. "Force of habit, Professor. I'm so glad you understand. You know some people." She pursed her lips and sat up perfectly straight. "Children should be seen, not heard," she mocked, and she and Albert laughed.

When they had settled down, Albert was the first one to speak. "Actually, there was one boy I wanted to ask you about. I saw him sitting outside, on the swing."

"Who?" the director asked excitedly. Unable to contain herself, she shuffled a few papers on her desk.

"He had black hair, couldn't have been more than ten, and he was by himself. Also, he had the most intriguing red eyes."

She seemed to deflate a little. "Oh, Robert? He's... an odd boy. Still lovely, of course, but..."

Albert interest was piqued. "Tell me about him, please."

Ms. Stephenson considered for a moment. She nervously chewed the nail of her index finger. At last, she looked up a Albert seriously. "Alright. I think... I trust you, Mr. Sartre."

She leaned forward and set her elbows on the desk. "He's a quiet one, and he doesn't have many friends. He never really got along with the other children. I don't know why. He's always so kind and polite, but he prefers to spend time by himself. He's very smart, at the head of his school, even, but all he does is study. Study and read. The books at the elementary school are never enough for him. I've taken to lending him some of my child psychology books. I don't think he's particularly interested in psychology, but he chews through them anyway."

"He sounds like a very nice boy."

"Well, yes, although, there's one thing. His parents, Mr. Sartre. I don't want to speak ill of the dead - let their poor souls rest in peace - but they, well, I knew them when they were alive, that's how I got Robert, and they weren't, ah, very kind to him."

Albert cocked his head. "Did they...?"

Ms. Stephenson shook her head vigorously. "Oh, no, nothing like that at all. They never hurt him, I'm sure. They never loved him, though, like every child deserves."

He nodded sagely. "Indeed. But, what do you mean?"

"I think, if anything, his father was afraid of him. He told me as much, once. I remember it as clearly as if it was yesterday. He said, 'That boy is going to kill us one day, I swear.' I was shocked. I thought he was joking. I can't imagine why he'd even think a thing like that. Robert would never hurt a fly. Still, they made him cover his books in brown paper, like he was reading something satanical. I've seen all his books - he keeps them in a box in his room - and they're just a bunch of nonfiction books, about all sorts of things, really. I've told him he can take the paper off, but he won't. I don't want to force him to do anything, so I leave them like that. I don't think Mr. and Mrs. Chaston, his parents, were ready for a child."

"How did his parents die, if you don't mind me asking?" Albert asked delicately.

"Oh, _you_ don't believe that he could've killed them, do you, Professor?" Ms. Stephenson asked incredulously. "He was seven, for goodness' sake!"

"No, certainly not. I'm sorry. I was just curious. They died three years ago?"

She cleared her throat and blushed. "I'm the one who should be apologizing, Mr. Sartre. It was rude of me to assume what you're thinking. I was out of place. It was not quite two and a half years ago, actually. Robert turned ten just a little while ago. They died in a car accident. He wasn't even there. It was a very traumatic experience for him."

"Did he become quiet after that?"

"No, I'm fairly sure he's always been like that. He was very sad after they died, though, I'm positive. He cried himself to sleep several nights. He didn't want anyone to know, but I heard him anyway. He's always thinking of others and never wants to worry anyone. He's an exceptional boy."

Albert nodded. "He sounds like it. Could I meet him?"

"I would be delighted if you would! I really want him to be adopted. He's getting older now, and you know how hard it is for the older ones to get adopted." Ms. Stepheson hurried out of the room. Albert heard the sound of a door screeching open, and then the babble of children playing. The door fell shut heavily. After a few moments, the door opened again, and soon after that, Ms. Stephenson reentered the office holding a boy by the hand. It was the same boy Albert had seen on the swing. He was thin and lanky, and he held a thick book covered in paper under his arm.

"Robert, this is Professor Albert Sartre. Say hello."

"Hello, Professor Sartre," Robert said softly. He held out his hand slightly. "It's very nice to meet you, sir."

"Mr. Sartre is fine, Robert." Albert shook the boy's hand firmly. "Ms. Stephenson has been telling me about you. You seem like a very nice boy. Can I see the book you're reading?"

Robert looked up, a faint twinkle of interest in his eyes. He handed the book to Albert, who flipped it open and smiled. "Memmler's Structure and Function of the Human Body. That's a rather large book for someone your age."

The boy brightened considerably. "The average length of the human esophagus is 25 cm long. Food enters the stomach via the lower esophageal sphincter. Stomach acid is mainly hydrochloric acid, potassium chloride, and sodium chloride. The chemical formula for those are-"

"HCl, KCl, and NaCl, respectively. Have you been studying the digestive system?"

"Mhmm." He smiled proudly. "Are you a doctor, Mr. Sartre?"

"No, I'm a professor. But I teach medicine at a college. Do you want to be a doctor?"

"Yes!" Robert practically shouted. "O-oh. I'm sorry..." He looked down and shuffled his feet nervously. "For yelling..."

"It's alright, son," Albert assured him, smiling. He patted Robert's shoulder and handed the book back. "Why don't you go back outside for a while to Ms. Stephenson and I can talk?"

"...Okay." he muttered. He left, and Ms. Stephenson sat back down at her desk. She was beaming.

"That's the most talkative I've seen him in a long time. I knew you'd make an excellent father for him. Do you think you'd like to adopt him?"

Albert remembered the gleam in the Robert's eyes when he was talking about medicine, and his sudden shame in raising his voice. The boy was very mature for his age, but he had a lot to learn about being a child. "If there's anything I can do to make him happy, I'll do it."

"Oh, that's glorious! There's just a few papers, and then a couple of weeks of processing, but I'm sure you'll be approved..." She rambled on while Albert leaned back and smiled.

Precisely two weeks and three days later, Albert Sartre's sleek grey car pulled up to the orphanage. Ms. Stepheson and a few other staff members were standing out in front with the boy, Robert. A mob of children stood in the main doorway, whispering amongst themselves. Albert got out of the car and walked up to Robert, who was clutching Memmler's Structure and Function of the Human Body to his chest.

"Hello again, Mr. Sartre."

"Hello, Robert. Are you ready to leave?"

"Yes, sir."

Ms. Stephenson hefted Robert's box of belongings into the trunk of Albert's car while Robert said goodbye to the orphanage staff. Before he got into the car, Ms. Stephenson gave him one last crushing hug. Tears shone in her eyes. "We'll miss you, Robert. Professor Sartre will take good care of you."

Albert helped Robert into the back seat of the car. He buckled himself into the driver's side of the idling car and shut the door. As he pulled away, he could hear the shouts of the orphanage children saying their final farewells. Robert watched stoically as they left.

Albert glanced back at Robert, grinning encouragingly. "Why don't you read to me from Memmler's?"

Robert smiled a small smile and read with enthusiasm.

* * *

**A/N:** Yes, Memmler's Structure and Function of the Human Body is a real book. It's also a mouthful. I went on a medical book database and picked the most generic-sounding one I could find. Mini-CR's medical facts are true, as well. Anyone who guesses how I incorporated all the letters in CR's prison number into this story gets an internet cookie. There's more than one right answer, though I didn't intend for it to be that way. Hope you enjoyed the story, and please remember to R&R!


	2. Love is Blind

**A/N:** I never planned to write this. I didn't really want to (until I got started :D). But, after all the positive feedback I recieved, I decided to keep going. Man, you know I can't resist my fans. Heheheh. I'm sorry about this short chapter, but I promise the next one will be longer. This is going to be my first multi-chaptered piece *collective gasp* and I have a lot of ideas for it. It's the simple story of the Sartre household shortly after Memmler's but before Rosalia, so I have four years to work with. Please review (criticism is LOVED) and follow; it's you guys that prompted this story, and I really want you to stay with me. I need your support.

Each chapter will be a short story detailing an event in Albert and Robert's life. Although each one can be read alone, they are connected chronologically, some more closely than others. My plan is to update with a chapter a week, and I already have the next chapter half done. Feel free to nag. I need it sometimes. Also, if there's anything you'd like to see happen to this little family, PM me with a request. I love feedback from you guys.

WARNING: May contain fluff.

This story is dedicated to Sophie Trite, ChocolatexCheese, Vorel Laerek, and you. Yes, YOU! You feed my shameless internet addiction, and for that I applaud you.

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"Ach!" Albert Sartre sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had been working on an experiment for the past few weeks, and it wasn't going very well. He couldn't for the life of him discern why. He peered at his notes again, trying to figure out where he'd gone wrong, but the complicated figures swam before his eyes. He tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a large yawn. It had to be extremely late. As much as he disliked giving up, Albert knew he must get some sleep. After all, it wasn't just him anymore. He stood up and smiled. He'd only brought the boy home a few days ago, but Robert had changed him.

Albert gave the lab a quick cleaning and left. He climbed the set of twisting stairs that led up from the basement and emerged in the kitchen. To his surprise, Robert was sitting at the dining table, reading one of his books. He was completely absorbed, and remained unaware of his new father's presence until Albert was right behind him.

"Robert?" The boy jumped. His head snapped around to stare up at the disheveled researcher. "What are you still doing up? I know it's summer, but it's not good for a boy your age to be up at this hour."

Robert look confused, but hung his head guiltily at the disapproval in Albert's voice. He licked his lips nervously and started to say something, but stopped.

"What is it, my boy? Is something wrong? If there's anything you need, you know you can tell me. At any rate, it's time to go to bed." Albert started towards the stairs that went to the second floor of the house, but stopped in his tracks when he entered the living room. Light was filtering in through the dusty curtains.

"...Son, what time is it?"

"Seven thirty, Mr. Sartre..."

"Oh, dear." Albert sighed and slumped back into the kitchen. "I, uh... I'm a mess." He sat heavily in the chair across the table from Robert. He placed his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes with his palms. He managed a chuckle. "I guess I should, er, make breakfast then, shouldn't I?" Robert didn't say anything. He was still very quiet and cautious in his new home, though Albert had tried to make the transition as easy as possible for him.

Albert smiled gently at Robert as he pushed his chair back and rose. Well, there was no rushing the boy, and Albert Sartre was nothing if not patient. Robert would settle down in time. He strode to the refrigerator and opened it. For the second time that morning, he was utterly shocked. He shut the refrigerator slowly, trying to suppress his anger at his own stupidity. He let out another heaving sigh. Robert, sensing the tension in the air, peered up at him fearfully.

"Robert? Yesterday, did I say we were going to go grocery shopping?"

"Y-yes, sir."

No food. He had a son, and there was no food. For quite some time, Albert said nothing. Then he began to laugh. It was a soft little laugh, almost inaudible. Robert was taken aback. He bit his lip and shrank back. Albert's laughter grew louder, and he shook his head sadly. He laughed for several more minutes; Robert grew more and more uncomfortable with each second that passed. When Albert finally calmed down and looked up, Robert was sitting so low in his seat that he was practically under the table. Albert, realizing his mistake, hurried to his side and apologized.

"I'm sorry for scaring you, my boy. I'm a, uh, a forgetful old man."

Robert looked up at Albert questioningly. Albert smiled kindly.

"Everything's fine. I'm not upset. You can come out now, you know."

Robert sat up and, although he still looked a little shaken, appeared to be recovering.

"Well, your silly father stayed up all night working. Will you be alright for a few hours while I take a nap? Then we'll go out for breakfast, and then we'll go shopping. You can't keep letting me forget these things, Robert. I'm just a poor old man, remember?"

Robert smiled his tiny, shy smile. He would be okay.

"If I'm not up by eleven o'clock, then you can come and get me," Albert called as he climbed the stairs. He got to his bedroom and didn't even bother taking his lab coat off before collapsing onto his bed.


	3. Realization At Breakfast

Albert Sartre didn't want to get up. Something tugging at the edge of his consciousness told him he should, but in his state of half-sleep he couldn't quite grasp what it was. Besides, he was so warm and comfortable. He curled up tighter under his lab coat, muttering something along the lines of "ten more minutes" to himself.

The pesky obligation in the back of his mind wouldn't let Albert get back to sleep. The more he tried to push it aside, the more it nagged him. He had the oddest feeling, as well, like someone was watching him. Since it was useless to try to sleep, he sat up and took a deep breath, resigning himself to doing whatever it was he was supposed to be doing. At least he didn't have to relinquish his warm lab coat. He saw Robert standing at the entrance of his room, watching him, and he remembered the morning's events.

"Ah, Robert. Eleven o'clock, is it?"

Robert nodded.

Albert scratched his head and ran a hand through his hair. "I'll be down in a minute. Go and get ready."

Robert scurried downstairs. Albert stood up and stretched. The modest digital alarm clock by his bedside read 11:18. Even if it was twenty minutes late, he was glad his son had finally worked up the courage to wake him. He picked a clean shirt and ambled to the bathroom.

Albert's lab coat and dirty shirt fell to the floor, and he slipped on the fresh white button-up. After brushing his teeth, he splashed water on his face to wash the last remnants of sleep from his eyes. He hastily ran a wet brush through his whirlwind of blue-black hair. A brief inspection in the mirror proved him to be presentable, so he hurried downstairs. Robert was waiting in the foyer. Albert, neglecting to have even taken his socks off before falling asleep, slipped into the pair of brown loafers that waited for him beside the door. Ready at last, he opened the door and stepped outside.

The morning was beautiful. It was hot, but not stiflingly so, and the humidity in the air held a pleasant, earthy aroma. Albert strode down the front walkway towards the street, where his car was parked along the side of the road. Once he and Robert were settled in the car, he began driving.

"Where would you like to east?" Albert asked his son. It usually took a bit of prompting to get an answer out of the boy, so he added, "Are you in the mood for breakfast or lunch?"

"Breakfast."

"Okay, then."

It didn't take long for Albert to reach downtown. The town was centered around the college, and as a professor, he lived very close to the campus. He parked to the side of a large cafe: one that, during the school year, was frequented by college staff and students alike. During the summer, however, business was usually quite slow.

A bell above the door jingled when Albert and Robert entered, and they were greeted by an enthusiastic young woman in a white apron. She seemed very glad for something to do.

"Good morning," she chimed, waving cheerily. Her name tag proclaimed her to be Holly. She plucked two plastic covered menus from the bar counter. "Can I get you a seat?"

"Yes, please," Albert replied.

Holly lead the pair to a two-seater table and handed them the menus. "Can I get you anything to drink?"

"A coffee for me, thank you."

"Decaf or regular?"

Albert smiled to himself. "Regular, definitely."

"And for you?" she asked, turning to Robert.

"Do you have, um, milk? Chocolate, I mean. Chocolate milk? Please?" Robert looked at Albert as though asking for permission. Albert nodded. The boy was quick to seek approval from authority figures. Albert hoped he'd be able to break Robert of the habit and make him more assertive.

"Sure!" Holly took a pen from her ear and scratched on a notepad from her apron. "I'll be back in a sec, okay?" She bounded away.

Robert fiddled with the edge of his menu as he inspected it. Albert already knew what he wanted, so he set his aside and began pouring cream into his coffee. He soon felt Robert's red eyes fixed on him intently. "Yes?"

"C-can I-"

He'd heard the words so many times now that it was starting to amuse him. Albert looked across the table at him and spoke gently. "You're my son now, Robert. You're a very polite young man, but you don't have to ask for everything. You can have whatever you'd like."

Robert seemed surprised, but he was silent. He looked back down at his menu.

Holly came back with their drinks. She set a steaming mug of coffee near Albert and placed a tall glass of chocolate milk in front of Robert. She tossed a straw onto the table for Robert and pulled the notepad out. "Do you know what you'd like, or do you need a minute?"

"I'm ready," Albert said. Robert made a small affirmative noise.

"Alright, then. What'll it be?"

"I'll have the cherry crepes, please." This particular restaurant was known for its variety and quality of pastries and other such foods.

"Apple pancakes, please," Robert answered softly when she looked at him.

"Alright. It'll be ready in a little bit. Just call me over if you need anything!" She left again.

A calm silence fell over the table. Robert sipped his milk carefully, and Albert took a few gracious sips of coffee. As they sat, the bell above the door rang and an elderly couple entered the cafe. Holly seated them as well, still as bubbly as ever. Robert watched them intently from the corner of his eye.

After a few minutes of watching Robert watch the couple, Albert said quietly, "You know, it's not polite to stare."

Robert jumped and looked ashamedly down at the table. Albert laughed. "I was joking, Robert. Do you like to watch people?"

"A little. They're always so happy..."

Albert knew it wasn't best to pursue this line of conversation at the time. He quickly changed the subject. "What's your favorite food, since we're going shopping?"

Robert always seemed surprised when someone asked for his opinion. Albert guessed he wasn't used to it with his parents. They way Mrs. Stephenson described them, it wouldn't be surprising.

"Well, I like... I like.." He stopped. "I'd never really though about it," he whispered so quietly that Albert almost couldn't hear him. "I like chicken, I think... And strawberries..."

Holly interrupted the pair to deliver two steaming plates of food. "Enjoy, boys!" She hopped off again. Robert picked at his food and didn't say anything else, so Albert dug greedily into his crepes, and that was the end of their conversation.

When they finished eating and Albert had drained his third cup of coffee, he signaled for the check. He glanced over it, then pulled out enough money to cover the bill and a nice sized tip from his wallet. He set it on the table and stood up.

"Let's go shopping before I forget again, hmm?"

**

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A/N:** Man, guys, I am SO sorry. I fail at life. I said I'd upload a chapter a week and it's been, what, 3? I just didn't have the motivation to write this for the longest time. I think I'm back in business, though. Except for the fact that I'm leaving for camp on Sunday and not coming back for two weeks. XD All apologies, dudes and dudettes.

I dedicate this chapter to myself for finally getting off my lazy ass and doing something. Don't forget to R&R, and please send requests for events in the Sartre family life, because after the fifth chapter I will have no more ideas.**  
**

In my story, Cumberland is a fictional mid-sized college town on the Delmarva peninsula (based loosely on Salisbury, MD). Robert comes from an orphanage in Portland, approximately an hour away. I've never been to Maryland, but I'm sure it's a wonderful place to live.


	4. The Coming Storm

**A/N:** Since it took me so long to get the third chapter done, I'm putting this up as well. This piece was originally going to be part of a much longer event, but I want my chapter lengths to be more regular (1,100-1,500 words) so they're more manageable for readers. Plus, there's more suspense this way! This chapter is dedicated to my cat, Hallie, because I can't think of anyone to thank. Please R&R! Taking requests for events in the Sartre family's life. After the next chapter, I have no more ideas!

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Albert Sarte had already taken care of Robert's schooling arrangements. He'd signed him up for the local elementary school and brought him shopping for new clothes and school supplies. He had initiated a curfew to get Robert into a regular sleep schedule (though the boy was usually in bed long before the 9:00 limit set for him) and helped him pack all the things he would need into his backpack. Everything was prepared.

Albert was worried that his son would be nervous about attending a new school, but Robert showed no signs of being so. Robert hadn't changed much in the two months he'd been with Albert; he had grown more used to the house and opened up to Albert a bit, but, despite the professor's best efforts, outside the home he was still as nervous as ever. At least with the approach with the school year he didn't seem to be getting any worse.

It was the Thursday the week before classes started, both for Robert and Albert. All that day, the sky had been threatening rain. The clouds in the sky were dark and angry, and the air was thick with humidity. It had been like this for several days now, but the storm held off, gathering power until it could unleash its fury in one hellish torrent. It finally began to rain that evening a Albert and Robert were finishing dinner, around six-thirty. Rain pattered on the roof, but the heart of the storm was still a ways off, and was thunder there was rumbled gently in the distance. Robert became more alert when the rain started, but Albert ignored him. Robert had a habit of being visibly attentive to small stimuli, not unlike a cat, but usually it was nothing to be concerned about.

After dinner, the pair sat in the living room: Robert reading one of his many books, Albert working on lesson plans, and the television humming amicably in the background. The storm was steadily getting closer; the rain pounded harder on the roof and there was the occasional flash of lightning. Robert headed upstairs at precisely 9:00 with no prompting, and Albert heard the familiar routine of him brushing his teeth and settling in bed. Sound traveled well through the thin walls of the again house.

Albert retired slightly before 11 o'clock. By this time the thunder was a lot louder, almost shaking the house, and the local news had reports of hail. Albert wasn't worried, though; although these storms weren't common in the region, they weren't completely without precedent, especially this time of year. His old house had withstood worse.

The halls of the second floor creaked delicately as Albert walked to his room. He sat on his bed and unbuttoned his shirt. Suddenly, he heard a noise, like a screech or a whine. He though it might be his bed frame creaking, but he still heard it when he stood up. He listened closely. It was coming from the next room.

"...Robert?"

The whine grew louder, and now Albert could distinguish it as a sob. He hastily stuffed his arms back into the sleeves of his shirt and hurried to Robert's room. There was no light in the hall, and he tripped but managed to catch himself before he fell. He practically threw Robert's door open and turned the light on.

"Robert? What's wrong?"

Robert was pale and shaking, and he had the edge of his blanket in a death grip. A bit of the blanket was clenched between his teeth, presumably to stifle his sobs, but when he saw Albert, a wail escaped his lips. Before Albert could get a good look at him, Robert closed his eyes and hid under his covers. Albert approached the boy carefully, fearful of what was wrong with his son that made him act like this. He sat on the edge of the bed and spoke gently to Robert.

"My son, come out and talk to me."

Robert mumbled something, but it was too soft for Albert to hear.

"I can't hear you. You're going to have to come out from under there.

Robert wouldn't budge, but he repeated himself, louder, and this time his shrill voice penetrated the mass of sheets over him. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Mr. Sartre. I'll be quiet. I promise. Please don't hurt me!"

Albert was shocked. It took him a moment to regain his composure before he could respond. "Robert, I... I would never hurt you. Never. Why would you think that? You don't have to be afraid. Please, sit up and let me know what's wrong."

Robert peeked out from under the covers and saw the genuine compassion in Albert's eyes. His bottom lip quivered and he tossed the blankets aside. He wrapped his skinny arms around Albert's waist, buried his head in his chest, and broke into tears. Albert was surprised at his son's sudden change, and he wasn't quite sure what to do. He stroked Robert's hair and held the boy tight since it seemed like the best course of action. Eventually Robert stopped crying and dislodged himself from Albert. He was still hyperventilating and hiccuping, but he was calming down. Albert brought the boy downstairs for a cup of water.

Robert sat at the kitchen table, stubbornly rubbing his red, itchy eyes. Albert made two glasses of water with ice and handed one to Robert. He took off his tear-soaked shirt, hung it on the back of a chair, and sat down. Robert sipped his water, and for a while, they were quiet. Albert broke the silence first. He had a lot of questions.

"Are you okay now?"

"Y-yes."

"What happened? Why were you so scared?"

No response.

"Was it the storm? Did you have a nightmare?

Tentatively, "Not exactly... I, um, I remembered."

"You remembered something you forgot?"

"N-no, not that, either. I thought about something scary that happened, you know, a long time ago, and then I remembered it. It was like a nightmare, except it was real."

Ah. "You had a nightmare about something that happened to you before, then."

"Mhmm."

Albert waited for Robert to elaborate, but no explanation seemed to be forthcoming.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" he prompted.

Robert hesitated. His brow furrowed; he was thinking very hard. At last, he relaxed. He sighed and his shoulders sagged, almost in defeat. "Do you promise not to get mad?"

"I promise."

Robert gulped nervously. "It was when mother and father were still alive..."


	5. A Bad Thing

_It had been an unusually cold and violent winter, and that January night was no different. Sleet and frozen rain pelted the roofs of houses. Driving wind violently shook thick tree limbs that screeched in pain as they drew across glass windows and corrugated metal porch awnings. Thunder boomed so loudly that the sound reverberated in the earth, making it seem as if the ground itself trembled in fear of the storm._

_In a small room in a fairly nondescript house in an unobtrusive suburban neighborhood, a young boy shivers. His room is poorly heated and his few worn blankets do little to stave off the cold, but he has long grown used to the frozen environment. He is shuddering not with cold, but with fear._

_The boy's tiny index fingers are shoved into his ears; he is desperate to drown out the noise of the storm. His eyes are wide and bloodshot because he is too afraid to blink, scared that if he closes his eyes for even a brief second, he will never open them again. Lightning flashes outside, and the light casts a monstrous shadow of the branch near his window on the opposite wall. To stifle his scream, the boy bites down on his lip so hard that he cuts himself. The pain brings tears to his eyes._

_The frightened child doesn't know what to do. The storm rages right outside his window, ready to snatch him the moment his vigilance wavers. He is dreadfully tired. He doesn't know how much longer he can keep his eyes open. There is no one to help him. No one except..._

"Mr. Sartre, I did a bad thing."

_The boy knows what he is doing is wrong. If there is one thing his parents have taught him, it's that he is not to disturb them, under any circumstance. He is a terrible child, and for his transgression he will surely suffer retribution, but he has steeled himself for the punishment. He doesn't need to sleep with his parents. They would never allow that. But maybe a look, a fleeting glance, will give him enough strength to make it through the night. If not, well, then, he will be at the mercy of the storm. He has nothing to lose._

_The boy tiptoes as silently as he can down the creaking stairs. The second floor of the house is in woeful disrepair. That's why he sleeps up there. He knows a horrid child like him deserves nothing more. When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he strains to see. The living room is pitch black. He takes a tentative step forward and stubs his foot on the couch. He is not quick enough to silence his yelp. He throws his hand over his mouth in horror. If he wakes his parents now, it will be all over._

_In the master bedroom, a woman rolls over and nudges her husband. The deafening roar of the storm has been keeping her up, and now she believes she has heard something else. Someone else, perhaps. "Nonsense," the man mutters sleepily, but the paranoid woman is not reassured._

_The boy makes his way through the living room, slowly feeling his way, but he still knocks into the furniture several times. The thump of his clumsy contact seems painfully loud to his ears. He prays his parents can't hear him over the rain._

_The woman is sitting up, listening intently, her worry growing with each small sound._

_The boy comes to the hallway, which is free of obstructions. He creeps down the hall to his parents' room, the second door on the right. He reaches up towards the doorknob._

_The woman has lost track of the noise, but her imagination has already run rampant. A thief, a murderer, is waiting right by the door, preparing his knife so he can stab her in her bed!_

_The boy turns the knob and the door glides open soundlessly. The woman's eyes widen. Suddenly, lightning illuminates the scene. The boy is silhouetted in the flash. His scraggly hair is sticking up in all directions, and the light is reflected in his piercing red eyes. He looks almost demonic. The woman screams._

_"Aiee!"_

_The boy, realizing he has been caught, quickly flees upstairs. He can hear his mother shouting as he runs._

_"I told you, Michael, I told you! That boy is a devil!"_

_He knows the words are true. He's a monster. He can never do anything right. He doesn't deserve to live. He reaches his room and dives into bed. He sticks his face into the mattress and cries until he passes out._

_The boy is so tired that he sleeps through the rest of the night and most of the morning. It is 11 o'clock before he wakes up, and only then to the sound of footsteps. They are close. He bolts up in bed. It must be his parents, coming to punish him. He stands up immediately. The freezing floor hurts the bare soles of his feet. He rushes to the door. If his parents knew he was sleeping until it was light outside, he'll be in even more trouble. He cracks the door open and steps out, his head bowed. A profuse apology is nearly spilling over his lips._

_"I'm sorry, Mother-"_

_A questioning grunt comes from much closer than he had expected. His gaze moves upwards. Not even a yard away stands a hulking figure in blue. A police officer. The boy gulps. Oh, no. He's been so awful that now his parents have called the police to take him away._

_"Robert Chaston?"_

_The officer's voice is a lot kinder and calmer than he had expected. The boy nods hesitantly. The officer leans down and puts a hand on his shoulder gently._

_"Will you come downstairs with me, son?"_

_Robert nods again. He wonders why the officer is being so nice. He follows him downstairs to the kitchen. One of his elderly neighbors is standing there - he can't remember her name - along with a tall woman he has never seen before. She has her back to them as she speaks with the neighbor. The officer clears his throat._

_"Ms. Evans?"_

_The young woman turns. She is extraordinarily beautiful. Robert can't help staring at her, even though he knows it's rude to stare. Ms. Evans looks at the officer, and then her eyes are drawn down towards Robert. She glances back at the neighbor, who nods._

_"That's him."_

_Ms. Evans approaches Robert. She seems relieved. She kneels in front of him so she's closer to his height. Her soft blue eyes are filled with sympathy. "Robert. Are you alright?"_

_Robert nods for a third time. He's very frightened now. He doesn't know what's going on. He starts to shake again. Ms. Evans, mistaking his trembling for shivering, takes off her jacket and drapes it over his shoulders._

_"Your parents had an accident, Robert. We're so glad you're okay..."_

* * *

"They died because I was bad, Mr. Sartre."

Albert was speechless. He'd heard what Mrs. Stephenson had to say about Robert's parents, but still, he'd never imagined it could have been like this. Who could have? He was reeling.

"T-that's not true. Your parents died in an accident. There was nothing you could have done."

"They got in the car crash because they left. They left because I was bad. They just wanted to get away from me."

"Why didn't you tell the police?"

"It would've caused trouble. I'm not supposed to cause trouble. Trouble is bad."

Albert sighed. He knew there was nothing he could say right now that would change the boy's mind. It would take a long time to sort out Robert's problems. At least now he knew part of the puzzle.

"Robert, you're not a bad child. I don't care what anyone says. You haven't done anything wrong."

Robert peered up at him. He seemed doubtful. That was only to be expected.

Albert placed his hand on Robert's shoulder comfortingly, but the boy shrugged it off. Telling the story had brought up a lot of painful memories for him, and he had become withdrawn and distant. It hurt Albert to see his son like that.

In a distant corner of the house, an old clock chimed the hour. One o'clock. Realizing just how late they had stayed up, Albert suddenly felt very tired. He stood heavily and sighed. "It's getting late. We should both get some sleep."

Robert stood and let himself be lead back upstairs by Albert. They came to the boy's room and Albert watched him climb into bed. He stood by the door, his finger poised on the light switch. "Good night, Robert. If something else happens, if you need me, come get me. No matter what."

He flicked the lights off.

* * *

**A/N:** I hope this was as fulfilling for you to read as it was for me to write. It was hard, and it ended up being longer than I meant it to be (And taking longer, too!). I'm proud of it, though. This chapter is dedicated to a lot of people who will probably never read it, but they're in my thoughts anyway. I have a couple new ideas, but I'd still really love some from you guys, so send in those requests! Remember to stop by with a friendly review, as well. Constructive critcism rocks! I'll be going to school in a week, so the new chapters might be a little slow in coming, but I promise I'll keep going with this fic. My friend said she'll kill me if I don't. I DON'T WANNA DIE!

P.S. ChocolatexCheese: I assume someone, somewhere, serves apple pancakes. I mean, pancakes with apples on top? Why not? Put some cinnamon sugar on there and I bet it's terrific. I've never personally had apple pancakes, but the way I imagine them in my head, Robert would like them. I'll have to cook them someday and see what they taste like. I'll let you know when I do. XD


	6. The First Day

**A/N:** Merry Festivus to all. Honestly, I'm a godless heathen, so I really don't care what holiday you celebrate (if any). At any rate, here's a present to celebrate the winter solstice (though I'm five days late for that XP). These chapters are getting so sweet to the point of almost making me gag, but I figure if you're reading this fic, you don't mind the fluff. Enjoy! This chapter is dedicated to Brendon Urie. Reviews are appreciated, suggestions are loved, though I already have the next two chapters planned out and nearly fully written. Look forward to them before the Gregorian New Year! Ciao!

Yes, I am three months late, and yes, I am a terrible, terrible person. You have my permission to incessantly flame me in the reviews.

* * *

A boy with tidy black hair and bright red eyes peered cautiously up at the Grant Park Elementary School class lists. He shifted his backpack to a more comfortable position on his shoulders as he scanned the titles of the wall of papers. He found the fifth grade lists on the far right side and saw his name at the top of the second list. Room 9. He turned away and promptly realized he had no idea where that was. He tensed and tried to twirl his hair in his fingers before remembering that Mr. Sartre had had his hair cut a week earlier.

The boy focused on the task at hand. He glanced around furtively and saw no one. It was still early, and not many children had arrived yet. Mr. Sartre had to be at Cumberland early. Robert stood motionless, staring at the door like a startled deer. The door opened suddenly, and he nearly jumped. Two children walked in: a boy and his younger sister. The girl was humming merrily and the boy was scowling at her. He led her by the hand to the class lists and cleared his throat to get her attention. She fell silent at once and looked up at him expectantly.

"Okay, Liza. You're in kindergarten, so you're gonna go that way, to the door with the big 2 on it," the boy explained.

"What about you, Matty? Aren't you gonna come with me?"

"Nuh-uh. I'm already in fifth grade, remember? I gotta go the other way."

"But Mat-ty," the girl whined, pouting. "I wanna stay with you."

"You can't."

"Why not?"

"'Cause I said so."

"I wanna ask Mama."

"She's not here. That means I'm in charge."

"You're not being fair. I'mma tell Mama on you. You're gonna get in trouble if you don't let me come."

"Nuh-uh."

"Yuh-huh."

"What if I walk you to your classroom? You can see me after school's over."

"Okay, Matty. But you gotta keep your promise."

"I will. Now come on."

The boy led his sister to a hall on the left. A few moments he returned without the girl. He seemed much more relaxed. He raised a hand to Robert in casual greeting before sauntering down the hall on the right. Robert hesitantly followed him. At the end of the hall, the boy entered a room marked "10." Robert looked across the hall and saw Room 9. He felt immensely relieved. He stepped into the room and looked around.

Room 9 was inviting. 18 desks were arranged in groups of three, and quaint rugs covered most of the floor. The whiteboard at the front of the room was decorated with magnetic letters and a colorful calendar. In the center of the board, "Mr. Bates" was printed neatly in black marker. Windows lined the far wall, and in the furthest corner sat a large desk with a computer. A tall potted plant obscured Robert's view of the man behind the computer. He took a few tentative steps forward so he could get a better look. The clicking of his dress shoes got the attention of the man behind the desk, and Robert heard the gentle squeak of a swivel chair turning. The man stepped out from behind the desk.

Mr. Bates was short and broad; at full height he was still less than six feet. He had neatly cropped dark brown hair with even darker eyes. He smiled and Robert could see the beginnings of wrinkles about his eyes.

"Good morning," Mr. Bates said.

"Good morning, Mr., um, Bates," Robert replied.

The teacher chuckled. "Who might you be?" he asked, coming further into the room.

"I'm Robert."

"Robert Chaston?"

"Yes, sir."

"Tell me, Robert. Are you new at this school?"

"Y-yes."

Mr. Bates nodded to himself. "I didn't think I'd seen you around before." He approached the door. Robert didn't move. "I wasn't really expecting anyone this early," he murmured to himself, but Robert went wide-eyed with fear.

Mr. Bates chuckled, unaware that Robert had heard his afterthought. "Don't worry, I don't bite. I know it can be a little difficult, moving to a new school, but why don't you take a seat?"

Robert scurried to one of the desks near the front of the classroom. Mr. Bates leaned against the open door and glanced into the hallway, then down at his watch. "It's about twenty minutes until school starts. I'll be standing right here if you have any questions, Robert."

Robert didn't have any questions, and he sat quietly, holding his bookbag in his lap as the other students trickled in. Mr. Bates greeted each child as they came in, asking the names of a few and addressing those he already knew directly. Some kids sat down at desks, but most didn't, preferring to mill about in small groups, chattering excitedly about their summers. When the bell rang, all the students rushed to desks. A boy with glasses and a girl with blonde hair in a ponytail took the two empty seats in Robert's group.

Over the intercom, an older woman introduced herself as Mrs. Grayson, the principal. She gleefully welcomed them back after a wonderful summer, and then led them in the pledge of allegiance. After a few announcements, most of which concerned only the teachers, she bid them all a good day, and the intercom fell silent. Mr. Bates tapped on the board with a marker, and everyone looked toward the front of the room.

"I'm Mr. Bates, for those of you who haven't met me." He smiled a wide smile. "And you're in my fifth grade class this year. There's only one rule in this room: the golden rule. Who can tell me what that is?"

A girl with pigtails raised her hand enthusiastically. Mr. Bates pointed to her. "It says that you should treat others the way you want to be treated, Mr. Bates!"

"That's correct, Marilyn. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Now, I want you to think about how you would like to be treated. When you have something, raise your hand. Lucas?"

"Be quiet when other people are talking."

Mr. Bates wrote Lucas' suggestion on the board. "That's a good start. Who else has an idea?"

"Don't call people names!"

"Don't take things that don't belong to you."

"How about don't cheat off other people's papers?"

When they were finished, Mr. Bates had a list of about ten rules on the board. "Alright. These are all ways you would want to be treated. They're all part of the golden rule. Remember, that's the only rule here. Do you think you can do that?" All the students nodded earnestly. "Good. Then I think we'll have a good year. Let's call roll. Since I don't know everyone in here, and I'm sure some of you don't know each other, we're going to do something special today. I want to go around the room, and everyone has to say their name and something they did this summer. I'll start. My name is Carter Bates, and this summer I went hiking in Colorado. You can go next, Louis."

"My name is Louis, and this summer I went all the way to Canada!"

"I'm Casey, and I rode a horse!"

"I'm Emily, and I went swimming in the ocean."

The introductions snaked all the way around the room and came at last to Robert. He had been trying to think of something to say, but couldn't think of anything exciting he had done. All the other kids seemed to have such exciting lives. Finally, he took a deep breath and said, "I'm Robert, and I guess... All I did this summer... Well, I got adopted."

Robert suddenly felt very conspicuous. A lot of his classmates were staring at him, and others whispered exclamations of amazement. It felt like years before Mr. Bates broke the silence, but it was in fact less than a minute.

"It's very brave of you to say that, Robert. We're all glad to have you in our class this year."

All the other children quickly smiled and voiced their agreement.

"Yup."

"Uh-huh."

"Yeah."

"You're really cool."

Mr. Bates smiled. "I want you all to do your best to make Robert feel at home in his new school." Everyone nodded earnestly and Robert grinned sheepishly. Mr. Bates got their attention by rapping on the board with his marker again. "Now, who wants to help me pass out books?"

* * *

**SPAMSPAMSPAM BLATANTSELFADVERTISEMENT SPAMSPAMSPAM**  
If you haven't already, please read the wonderful new story, _Into the Light_, by Clarissa Gavin. :D


	7. Fathers Be Good

**A/N:** So, not quite before the New Year. XD Just goes to show you that you should never take anything I say seriously. You can trust this, though: there is some actual plot coming. Le gasp! Plot! You didn't think it was possible, did you? Well, YOU THOUGHT WRONG. I've had this baby planned out ever since the third chapter. All the way to Cumberland. MWHAHAHA. And then, when this fic ends, canon kicks in until, you guessed it: _Into the Light_! I guarantee, if I haven't already predicted the entire plot of the sequel, then something is wrong with the makers of the sequel. For reals, yo. They didn't even know where to start before Clarissa Gavin came along. This chapter is dedicated to the good people at CIEE in the hopes that karma will kick in and they will give me the scholarship.

* * *

Albert lay in bed and grinned. It was light outside, and he wasn't up yet. He didn't have to get up. It was finally winter break.

He closed his eyes and exhaled contentedly. Now that the semester at Cumberland was over, he could laze around for as long as he wanted to. Still, he was getting restless. He rolled over and squinted at his clock. Ten thirty. He should probably check on Robert. He sat up and stretched, yawning loudly. He put on his slippers and grabbed his robe, which was hanging on the doorknob, as he stepped out.

The house was quiet aside from the rumbling of the heating vents. Albert meandered downstairs and into the kitchen. He expected to see Robert poke his head out from behind a corner at any moment (the boy had a way of sneaking up on him), but he didn't. Albert coaxed the old coffee maker to life and opened the refrigerator, pulling out a carton of eggs.

"Robert," he called. "I'm making breakfast; would you like any eggs?"

The only response was from the coffee machine, which gurgled.

Albert scratched the back of his head. Maybe Robert was in his room. He set down the eggs and went back upstairs.

He cracked open the door to Robert's room. By the light from the window, Albert saw a tuft of black hair poking out from beneath the covers. He chuckled. The holiday party at Cumberland had kept them out quite late. The boy was probably exhausted.

Albert sat on Robert's bed and ruffled the exposed black hair. A confused moan came from the lump under the blankets. "Good morning, sleepyhead. I'm making eggs. Do you want me to wait for you, so they don't get cold?"

It took a moment for the lump to respond. "N-no."

"No? I thought you liked eggs."

"I'm not very hungry today."

That was odd. Robert was usually ravenous in the morning. The boy's voice was a little raspy, as well. Albert tugged on a corner of the blankets and was surprised to find it cool and slightly damp. Despite that, he could easily feel the heat emanating from Robert's feverish body. He pulled back the covers just a bit more and saw his flushed, sweaty face.

Albert smiled sadly. "No wonder you're not hungry."

Robert sat up, blinking rapidly to adjust his eyes to the light. He looked up at Albert worriedly. "I'm fine, Mr. Sartre. I'll get up in a minute."

Albert raised one eyebrow. "Get up? No, no, no, there'll be none of that. You'll stay right here."

Robert bit his lip nervously. "It's alright, Mr. Sartre-"

"No, Robert. It's not alright. You look miserable. Tell me, how long have you not been feeling well?"

"...Yesterday. And the day before that, I guess, but only a little." He cleared his throat and coughed.

Albert raised his arm and gently placed the back of his hand on Robert's forehead. Robert closed his eyes and sighed. Albert could tell how grateful he was for the cold hand on his burning forehead.

"Well, you have quite the fever," Albert said, a hint of disapproval in his tone.

Robert sniffed quietly. "I'm sorry, Mr. Sartre."

"What do you have to be sorry for, my son? You're just sick."

"You don't like that I'm sick."

"Of course not, Robert, but that's not your fault. I don't want you to feel ill, but everyone catches a cold now and then. I just wish you'd told me sooner. Will you let me know the next time you're getting sick, so I can help?"

"Yes, Mr. Sartre."

Albert stood up. "I'll be back in a few minutes. Just wait."

"Mhmm." Robert nestled back under the covers, drawing them up to his chin. As he left, Albert heard him barely contain a sneeze.

In the kitchen, his coffee was almost finished brewing, but he knew it could wait. He found a tall plastic cup for Robert. He tucked the eggs back in the refrigerator and snatched a half empty carton of apple juice from behind the milk. He put ice in Robert's cup, poured juice until it was two-thirds full and watered it down just a bit. He returned the juice and opened the cabinet above the sink. He stuck his hand into the furthest reaches of the cabinet. There had to be something for Robert. He didn't remember buying any medicine for the approach of winter, but he had to have bought some when he was preparing to adopt Robert, at least.

His fingers grasped a dusty box and he pulled back triumphantly. The label proclaimed his prize to be orange flavored children's strength Tylenol. There were just a few more things. He took a long ice pack from the freezer. From the downstairs bathroom, he grabbed a thermometer, a box of tissues, and a hand towel for the ice pack. Holding the glass of juice firmly in one hand and balancing everything else in the crook of his other arm, he hurried back upstairs.

Albert set everything he had on Robert's bedside table. He dragged the chair from Robert's desk closer to the bed so he could sit down. Robert sat up against the headboard. Albert picked up the thermometer and Robert obediently opened his mouth, lifting his tongue. He closed his lips tightly around the end of the thermometer. When it beeped, Albert took it and read it silently.

"What does it say, Mr. Sartre?"

"Only one hundred and one. It's not as bad as I thought."

"Oh."

"You're still definitely sick, though."

"I know," Robert said, and he looked away sadly.

"Don't worry, Robert," Albert replied, smiling kindly. "You'll feel better in no time."

Robert nodded slightly, but it made his head hurt, and he winced. Suddenly, he sneezed, and the sudden jerk of his head made him dizzy. Albert tore the plastic wrap off the box of tissues and handed it to Robert, who blew his nose gratefully.

"Thank you, Mr. Sartre."

"You're welcome."

Albert read the instructions on the side of the box of medicine. He opened the box, taking out a bottle of opaque orange liquid. He unscrewed the cap of the bottle, which served as the measuring cup, and peered at the faint numbers printed on it. He measured a dose and held the medicine, along with the glass of juice, out to Robert. Robert drank the medicine and washed it down with a large gulp of juice. Meanwhile, Albert had wrapped the ice pack tightly in the towel. He had Robert lie down, and he placed the cool bundle on his son's forehead.

"There. Is that better?"

Robert just smiled.

"Do you need anything else?"

"No, thank you."

For once, Albert was sure his son meant it. He stood up. "Then I'll let you sleep. I'll be right across the hall if you need me. I'll check in every once in a while, too. Okay?"

"Okay."

Albert began to leave.

"Um, wait!"

He turned around. Robert's face was flushed anyway, but Albert could have sworn he was blushing. "You're... a good father, Mr. Sartre."

Albert's throat tightened. "Thank you, Robert. That means a lot to me."

It was almost two o 'clock before he remembered his coffee.

* * *

I am about to suffocate from all this fluff. Seriously. I feel like I'm drowning in the big foam block pit from the gymnastics lessons I took when I was five. But it's okay. Because I loved that block pit. :D

**LOOK FORWARD TO THE NEXT EPISODE WITH A CERTAIN SENSE OF ENTITLEMENT.**


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